What Once Was Known (Is Now Lost)
by Raylion
Summary: They say you only know what you've got 'till it's gone. Harvey thinks that's bull. Harvey Specter, before and after Donna Paulsen leaves. [Harvey/Donna; AU after season three]


**Warning:** If you're looking for a story with a happy ending, please look elsewhere. There isn't one here.

 **Author's note:** So, this is something completely different than I would usually write. This is Harvey's PoV, and sometimes his head isn't always a neat, organized place. So if this story feels a little jarring and abrupt – that's why.

Harvey and Donna might seem a little out of character, especially in the "After" sections. I merely ask that you read to the end, where the two timelines draw together. I promise it will make sense.

 **Timeline:** This basically ignores season four and goes completely AU after season three.

* * *

 ** _What Once Was Known (Is Now Lost)_**

 _Before_

She sashays into his office like she always does: like she owns the place. Which, considering everything, might just as well be true. Her dress is a strange shade between green and blue that he would never even take a shot at trying to name. The color – whatever it's called – makes her hair look even more vibrant than usually.

They swiftly go over details of current cases and the next day's schedule, and everything is so completely normal, he doesn't give a second thought to anything. It's only when she casually remarks about needing to finish up on time, that he feels the shift in the air between them.

"Why? Got a hot date tonight?", he teases, trying to keep all other emotion out of his face and his voice.  
"Seeing... what's his name again? Brian? Ryan?", he knows how annoyed she is when he makes fun of the guys she dates, but it's not even a conscious decision anymore not to remember their names.  
"Really, Harvey? Not even close," she seems to be slightly amused and annoyed at the same time, her expression clearly saying 'you're not being cute _or_ funny'.  
"I've been dating the same guy for four months and you still can't remember his name? That's just sad, Harvey." And before he can gather his wits to reply, she leaves his office, a smirk on her face, because she knows she got him _and_ the last word.

Harvey looks at the spot where she just stood, his usually razor-sharp mind stuck on her words. In retrospect he starts connecting the dots, all the signs that's she's been seeing someone: the stunning date dresses, leaving on time or even early, going away for the weekend, the flowers, the longer lunches...  
The realization that he has no idea of what has been going on in her live hits him suddenly and unpleasantly.

 _After_

Somebody is trying to wake him up. He tries to growl in protest, but his throat is too dry. Whoever dares to be in his apartment, in his goddamn bedroom even, just needs to leave him alone.  
"Go away", he croaks at the intruder and flinches at the light streaming in from the windows (didn't he have the blinds down last night?) once he opens his eyes.  
"No Harvey. You need to get up and take a shower. Now." It's Jessica, voice calm but determined. A glass of water appears before his eyes and for a moment he considers playing the petulant child, throwing the blankets over his head and crawling back under his pillows, where no one can reach him and no one can find him. He barely resists the impulse; mainly because it's Jessica and she won't be deterred that easily. So he sits up and accepts the water, because he is thirsty after all, but makes no move to get up.

"Why?", he asks once he has taken a few sips. She just looks at him, and he can't bear it, because there is no trace of annoyance, just compassion. (Annoyance would be easier. So much easier.) So he turns away and just stares out of the window listlessly.  
"You know why, Harvey. Take a shower, get dressed, we brought breakfast and Mike's warming up your coffee machine." So that's who he can hear traipsing around.

"If you break anything, you replace it!", he calls in the direction of the kitchen, hoping to spark an argument that will stall them and distract at least the younger man in the kitchen. But nobody answers him, and he can see Jessica's reflection in the window.  
"I'm not going", he says, like it's a done deal.  
"Yes, you are. You're going to get out of that bed now, and you're going to clean up and put on a suit, and we're getting out of this place on time."  
"No, I'm not," he argues like a child, focusing on the city beyond the glass now. He hopes that if he behaves enough like an asshole – or like a child – they might just leave. But this is Jessica, and while a part of him can hope, he knows her better than that.

"Today is not for you Harvey. You don't get to decide if you go or not. So get up, or so help me God, we will put your sorry ass in the shower with all your clothes on and then dress you like the sullen child you're acting like." The fight seems to leave her for a moment, as she steps closer and tries a different track.  
Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, she speaks the words that finally make him move.  
"If you can't do it for yourself, do it for her."

 _Before_

It's late and they are sitting in his office, reviewing paperwork for one of his current multi-million dollar cases. Food containers are strewn across the coffee table, his jacket hangs on his office chair and her heels lie abandoned by the foot of the couch. They haven't done the late night thing in a long time, he thinks, and can't help wonder why. Maybe it was because of Zoe, and then Scottie, and then Stephen-fucking-Huntley, and then Scottie again. Maybe it was because of that stupid memo, and that even stupider deposition, and their dirty laundry that got aired against their will. Not all of their dirty laundry (thank god), but he is maybe the only person who knows how devastated Donna really was when her then-boyfriend ended things. They _had_ been pretty serious. It's been years since that day, and he had almost forgotten about it, before Louis dragged it up again.

(Which is a lie he likes to tell himself. It actually used to pop into his head randomly for years: "What would our lives be like if she had stayed with that guy?" or "Would she be married by now?" or "Would she still be here?". It's selfish.)

But there is no ring on Donna's finger, and it's been more than ten years since _The Other Time_ (and in his head, it's always in capital letters), and she seems content enough with whatever is going on with _Leon-who-works-in-publishing_ (and isn't that just a stupid name _and_ a stupid job?) to spend a long shift at the office alone with him. And he is glad for that, because after Scottie left the last time (and boy, he can't even say how many times she's come and gone in his life, and isn't that kinda sad?), things between them had been off-key somehow. They had worked as efficiently as ever, and she hadn't behaved any differently, but looking back he feels like an asshole. Not because of Scottie, because Donna pushed him towards that; no, because it was so soon after the Stephen-fucking-Huntley disaster, and instead of taking her out for drinks and making sure she was alright and dealing with everything, he went and chased another woman. Donna might have never said a word, she might not even have realized herself, but she needed him then, and immature and oblivious idiot he was – is, really – he wasn't there. Because punching the asshole and nailing his ass to the wall in court, that's things Harvey Specter can do. But making sure his friend is really alright? Well, that's another thing entirely.

So here they are now – back to their new normal, everything clicked into place smoothly. With more things washed away by the water under the bridge, and her dating some _publisher-agent-type_ , and them comfortable enough to work long nights around each other. And that's all he wants.

(Really. _Really?_ Really.)

 _After_

They arrive at the church on time. Not early, not late, just exactly at a time that is socially considered appropriate. Donna's family is already there, and one look at her mother is enough to make Harvey desperately wish he wasn't sober. In that moment he just wants to hide, stay in the back of the building and observe from there. But her mother spots him and comes down the stairs to greet him with a hug.

They exchange the usual socially expected greetings, and then she drags him inside to sit with the family. Panic spikes in his blood, because he does not want to be on display like that. But Sharon Paulsen doesn't leave him a choice. Harvey doesn't dare turn around and look for Jessica and Mike, for Louis and Rachel, and who else might be here from the office.

Time flies by as the minister drones on and on, and Harvey is pretty sure he doesn't fuck up in any way or draw attention to himself. After all, if his shoulders are drawn tight, it's probably just because the damn wooden benches are really uncomfortable.

He ends up staring at Donna's hair the whole time.

He's only drawn out of his trance once, when he senses movement next to him. When his gaze shifts, he sees Donald Paulsen gripping a tissue, trying not to look like there are tears making their way down his cheeks.

After it's all over, he slowly follows the Paulsens out of the church, but quickly drops back to the train of people forming. He has no business walking with her parents, no matter what her mother might think.

He's not family.

 _Before_

There's another multi million-dollar contract freshly signed on his desk, another satisfied client and another court-battle won with glory – naturally, Harvey is in the mood to celebrate. He knows Mike dashed as soon as Rachel was done with her work for the day, muttering something about 'plans'. Jessica hasn't been in the office since late afternoon, taking time to visit a client's offices upstate. So it's just him and Donna (and that's how it used to be – before the puppy, before everything).

It feels strangely right, and he feels a little nostalgic as well. They crack open a bottle of expensive champagne, put on some Jazz and relax. He's gotten used to the sight of her heels lying on the floor, and with these late evenings, his jacket is staying on his chair more often than not. His sleeves are carefully folded up, the buttons on his vest undone and even his tie is loose. He catches sight of himself in the window once and wonders when he re-learned how to be relaxed in the office. Then he catches sight of the barefooted redhead browsing his record shelf (as if she couldn't name every single piece in that collection without looking) and his breath almost catches for a moment.

Some sort of realization dawns on him then. Some almost tangible conclusion, that seems obvious in retrospect. He can feel it forming in the back of his mind, a curious sensation, and he almost has it... but as promptly as it has appeared, it eludes him again and her voice startles him out of his thoughts.  
"Well, don't let the bubble water get warm."

He throws her an affronted look. " _That_ , is not 'bubble water', but very expensive champagne, and you know it." She smirks then, and he realizes he's been played.

They toast, and drink, and after the first bottle there's another one, raided from the partner's kitchen, and then there's a bottle of wine... Sufficient to say, they get drunk. They joke around, make fun of other people, banter and reminiscence about the past; midnight finds them sprawled on the couch. He is sitting on one end, with her stretched out and her feet in his lap. It's more intimate than they've been for years, and the part of him that isn't drunk doesn't get it, but he just pushes that piece of rationality down successfully.

(Enjoy the moment. You never know when it will come around again.)

Donna is more open as well somehow, her face flushed from the alcohol, her gestures animated and more unrestrained than usually. She is less composed – less Donna-his-assistant, and more the Donna of ten years back. His mind is swimming a little too much to analyze why he feels so fucking comfortable right in that moment.

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask her something – he'll never remember what, in the days later, when he'll replay this moment – but what comes out instead is, "So, what does your boy-toy think about you getting drunk with your boss at midnight?"

She doesn't tense, but her carefree and lively expression fades to a contemplative smile. For some reason that reaction unsettles him even more than the fact that the question came out in the first place.  
"He knows that we're friends, so he's okay with it. I actually texted him to not wait up."

She says it like it's no big deal, but red flags go up in Harvey's mind and he exclaims confused: "Did you move in with him while I wasn't looking?"

Her answering look is all 'you silly, silly man', and she smirks, before explaining, "Of course not. But he has been staying over a lot, because let's face it, as mind-blowing as the sex is, a girl needs her beauty sleep and her closet to look fabulous in the morning."

His brain gets stuck on 'mind-blowing sex' and refuses to leave for a few moments. It's a bad combination to come out of her mouth, because as much as he's tried, he still hasn't forgotten _The Other Time,_ and mind-blowing is a descriptor he's always associated with that night. Maybe she used it afterwards, maybe he did; he no longer remembers. But to hear her use the words in conjunction with some publisher-guy feels somehow... strange (or maybe just plain _wrong_ ). And he really can't put his finger on _why_ (it's there, somewhere in the back of his mind, that elusive realization).

"Oh you're such a guy, Specter. Your brain got stuck on the word sex, didn't it?" She laughs at him, all drunken playfulness, and somehow her levity in this situation feels strange (wrong) too.

 _After_

Her desk is empty.

It's been that way for exactly two hours now, since he fired the latest temp this morning. The girl was just too green behind both ears. And had an annoyingly sunny disposition that grated on him from the moment she introduced herself to him – which was only three days ago. By lunch a replacement will have been sent, but he doubts that they will last longer.

He stubbornly avoids looking at the desk outside his office these days. Whether it's empty or someone else is sitting there doesn't matter. None of them are _her_. None of them ever will be. And really, he can do without an assistant. Mike and Rachel are doing just fine with covering whatever he throws at them, and eventually Jessica will have to stop haunting his ass about getting an assistant.

Hours pass, the sun sets and he is peripherally aware of people leaving their offices, the floor emptying. At one point he looks up to see her standing in the doorway, casually leaning against the frame. It startles him so badly, his pen draws across the whole sheet of paper he has been reviewing.

"Well, you couldn't stay away for long."

It comes out bitter and angry, and he finds himself startled by his own honesty. This isn't how this is supposed to go; he's not supposed to show his weakness this openly.

(The words 'you can't be here' linger on his tongue, but remain unspoken. No need to state the obvious.)

She doesn't say anything, just gives him _the_ look. It's part 'stop-being-an-absolute-idiot' and part apology. He wants to laugh at that, because one unspoken apology will not get rid of his resentment and he almost tells her as much. In the last moment, he holds himself back. She must sense his indecision, because she strides into his office then, coming to stand by his basketball collection. The silence between them is uncomfortable and ugly, full of his resentment and her emptiness.

She's still staring out into the night when she finally addresses him.  
"Stop it, Harvey."  
The words just linger in the air for a moment, like they have a hidden meaning he is supposed to decipher.  
"Stop being a dickhead to your assistants. And while we're at it, stop being an asshole to Jessica, Mike and Rachel too. They don't deserve your anger."

The unspoken 'but _I_ do' lingers between them, settling into the space that has opened up between them.

By the time he has finally, finally found the words to say to her (and that's another thing that stabs at him: he used to be quick and witty), she is already gone.

 _Before_

By the fifth time the words 'this is complete bullshit' cross his mind, Harvey decides that enough is enough. There's just no way the research in front of him is making sense and he curses himself for having handed this task off to some shitty paralegal in the first place. He almost wants to curse Rachel for having the audacity to take a Friday morning off, but then begrudgingly admits that taking an exam might be a valid reason to miss out on work. But now it's Sunday, he's trying to get some work done at home, and the research is completely useless. He sighs loudly in frustration and swears to never ever rely on anyone who's not on his team of trusted helpers again. The way his Sunday is shaping up, he's gonna have to head to work and call Rachel and Donna in as well.  
(Fan-fucking-tastic.)

A look at the clock tells him that it's just past 11 am, so Donna should be heading out of her Sunday yoga session. (And he consciously does not think further on _why_ exactly he knows that with such certainty.) He decides to call her first and take the coward's way out by having her call Rachel in. If she lets him, that is.  
His fingers find his cellphone and the right speed dial on autopilot. He grins for a moment as her picture lights up his screen and sees she managed – again – to somehow change her contact name to 'Queen of Awesome' (he's _got_ to find out how she does that). The dialing tone sounds, and it's on the tip of his tongue to greet her with a quip about her contact name reminding him of a stripper he once knew (not true, but still funny), when his world tips on its axis.

"Hello?", a _male_ voice greets his ear and Harvey is struck speechless. In all the years he's known Donna, even in the months she was in a very committed and serious relationship, she has never let someone else answer his calls. (Never. Ever.) He wants to snap an angry 'Who the fuck is this, and why are you answering my assistant's phone, you ass?', but refrains at the last moment, as his confused mind remembers publisher-boy.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, before he almost growls, "Is Donna around?"  
"Yeah, gimme a moment."

Despite the months that have passed, Harvey has never met Leon-who-works-in-publishing, so this is the first time he even hears his voice. He sounds relaxed and almost sleepy, and like he's a complete bore. Really, 11 am is not a time to be still tired. Except if you're tired _again_ , for a completely different reason. ( _Don't_ go there, Harvey.)  
There's some rustling in the background, and then he hears the boy-toy on the other end of the line whisper something that sounds suspiciously like "Phone for you, Babe. Sounds like a grouchy douche, so it's probably your boss."

His insides twist at the 'Babe'-part for some reason, because Donna hates ridiculous and clichéd nicknames like that. Hates them a lot.  
There's a grumbled reply of "Gimme that", and her voice has that slightly husky quality, and his mind instantly presents him with a multitude of images. (A lot of them are rated _R_.) And then he snaps out of it, and almost grins as he hears her add, "And don't call me Babe".

 _Except._ Except she doesn't sound serious, not like she's chewing the guy out, but more like she's... playing. Flirting. Like she would when they _banter_ , and Harvey feels another stab that he cannot explain. He _knows_ this thing between Donna and her current boy-toy doesn't bother him. It does not. Why should it?  
(Yes, _why_ indeed?)

 _After_

Eventually, people stop looking at him like he might break or explode at any given moment.

Which is naturally when he chooses to let go and starts drinking. He's not stupid about it. Not like last time, when he went gambling and spiraled maybe a _little bit_ out of control. No. This time, he's careful.

He spends whole weekends in a pleasant, drunk haze. Sometimes he lazes around and watches TV without seeing anything, and sometimes he goes out to clubs. He frequents places he used to avoid like the plague, the ones with loud music and flashing lights. He still hates the lights and the music and the clubs. Nobody recognizes him, and he can drown in the anonymity of it all. He buries memory after memory under a solid wall of alcohol, and buries himself in woman after woman. Brunettes and blonds, ditsy and straightforward, young and experienced. Never redheads. Never the whip-smart ones, with an iron will to match, and too much sass for their own good. Never the ones who are a challenge.

Not once does he give voice to what's eating him (not grief, never grief), the dark, ugly thing that consumes his waking – and sober – hours.

Come Monday morning, he's at work – if sometimes slightly late – looking suave in a crisp suit like always, buttons all done, tie straight and nobody is any the wiser.  
Weeks turn into months, but he still thinks of her every time he sees a redhead in the streets. Sometimes he's even almost sure that it actually _is_ her and barely holds himself back from calling her name. She's out of his life, and that's it.

But then that's _not_ it.

He's lazying around on the couch in the living room, still drunk from the night – and day – before, even if the sun is already setting again, drawing long shadows in his apartment.

"You're a mess."

The voice comes out of nowhere, and startles him so badly, he tumbles off the couch. The close and personal meeting with his hardwood floor draws him painfully out of his haze. It's a scramble to sit his ass back on the couch with at least a little dignity; he tries, and promptly fails.

He _is_ a mess.

She's leaning against the doorway, dressed casually, in tight jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair is unnaturally bright in the dim light. He blinks a few times, but her image remains _right there_.

"You can't be here", are the only words he gets out, because there is a part of him that's hurting, even if he won't say it out loud.  
"Of course I can. I have a key." She smirks at him, but it's a pale imitation of the real thing, sadness almost a palpable thing in the air between them. A part of him wants to stare at her as long as he can and enjoy this brief, fleeting moment. Another part of him simply _knows._ Knows, that _a moment_ is exactly all this _can be_.

She's silent like a ghost as she enters the room, bare feet noiselessly meeting the hardwood, and sits down next to him on the floor. For a long while, there is silence between them, and he just stares out the window.

Finally, he turns to look at her, and his words are only a whisper, "Have you come to tell me to stop? Again?"

She looks at him then, eyes searching for something he cannot grasp, red hair seemingly glowing in the last, retreating rays of sun.  
There's a stillness in the air between them, something undefinable that reminds him of endings.

"You already know that you need to stop. And you know why I'm here."

He doesn't understand; not her, not them, not this moment. Their river's overflown, their bridges have crumbled, and he doesn't know how to deal with that.

"Why?", he asks again.

When she answers, her eyes are too bright ( _like unshed tears_ ), and when she speaks, she condemns them both. "Because you need me to be."

The river gushes up once more, but this time it takes all rationality away. Need breaks through, buried beneath pain and anger, and he crushes his lips to hers.

 _Before_

"Donna, out with it. What is it?"

She's been standing in front of his desk like a lost sheep for the last minute, and he just needs this long, long day to finally end. He's been distracted for days, has been feeling his age more and more.

He notices how she swallows, looking around at the empty halls, and then sits down in the chair opposite from him. He puts aside the files he's been unsuccessfully trying to read, because something tells him that whatever she has to say, it's important.

(And deep down, there's this feeling of _dread_ building.)

"Okay. Just... hear me out first," she starts, almost tripping over her words, and that feeling of trepidation grows stronger. Donna is almost never this skittish about anything.

"Leon is being considered for a different position in the publishing company. It would basically be a promotion. Better pay, more flexible work hours and more big-name clients."

Harvey's first reaction is to ask 'so what?', or maybe 'get to the damn point, Donna', but he keeps himself in check (barely). Donna takes another deep breath, and only that absolute feeling of dread keeps his eyes from following that movement.  
And then, the axe falls. "The position would be in Chicago. And he has asked me to come with him. To Chicago. And I... might say yes."

She looks relieved and tense at the same time, and Harvey is completely frozen. (He wants to scream, or maybe laugh at her joke, or maybe cry; he doesn't really know in that moment).  
His mouth moves on its own accord, and "Okay" is all that comes out. He can tell that it's not the reaction Donna expected, and she just stares at him. In a different situation he might have found the expression of utter confusion on her face amusing.

"Harvey...", she is reaching for words, clearly unsure on how to proceed, and all he knows is he needs her out of his office, _now_.  
"Donna. Just... go home", and if it sounds almost pleading, he can't help himself. He looks at her, and knows that his whole face probably screams his shock at her. He can see that what she really wants is to argue with him, to confront him and all he isn't saying. (Like 'What the fuck are you thinking? You _can't leave me_!')  
But then something shifts in her expression and she just nods, before getting up. With quick strides she leaves his office, and it takes only a minute for her to pack up. The tension in her shoulders and the way she almost turns to look back at him are enough to almost break his resolve to stay silent, but then she gets on the lift and is gone.

The next hour, he goes through a multitude of emotions. Once the initial shock wears off, anger isn't far off. It takes him a good fifteen minutes to stop his hands from continuously balling up in fists. After calling Ray to pick him up, he almost throws his phone to the floor. Anger churns in him, but beneath that he feels a terror he hasn't experienced in a long time.  
How the hell is he supposed to work without her? (He can't be who he is without her, _damn it_.) How can she even think about leaving all _they_ have built _together_ , just to be with some guy?

By the time Harvey arrives home, he is still oscillating between anger and disbelief. In the dark, with only a bottle of scotch as companion, a long night of contemplation begins. He goes through all the questions, tries to rationalize that he can do without her (knows he _can't_ ).  
At one point, he finally start to really understand; understand her, and even himself.  
Donna once said she deserves to live her life. He gets that this is the why – why she is considering leaving, moving for some guy to some city. Because while he has been fine with _meaningless_ for so long in his relationships, he knows that Donna has been looking for something _more_ for some time. He has never been able to really imagine how _more_ might look like. (Not with Zoe. Not even with Scottie.)

 _Except_. Except when he pictures Donna, and pictures her _more_ , he can actually see it. He can see her, having a _life_ , maybe getting married, maybe even being a mother; but most of all, he can see her _growing old_ with someone. He can imagine Donna having that _other_ kind of life, and realizes with a startling clarity that he always could.

Another realization hits him then: he is so damn tired of _meaningless_. That Scottie was his try at being someone else, that he hasn't been enjoying meaningless as much as he used to, after her. That she was offering a different outcome to his life, but he just couldn't picture it. Not then. But maybe, he's starting to see it now.

In the end, it is the thought of Donna starting a life with someone else, somewhere else, while he remains alone, that makes him crumble and wake up at the same time. (And maybe that's been the curious sensation at the back of his mind all along – that he actually might want that _other_ life, _wants_ to grow old. With her.)

And all these thoughts carry him to sleep, his realizations and his fears, and the utter helplessness he feels when faced with the revelation that most of all, he wants _her_.

 _After_

It's been two months since the morning he awoke in a daze, and could have sworn he saw her stealing out of his bedroom like a ghost. In that one moment, reality and fantasy were so closely tied together, to this day he can't bear to tear them apart.  
(Or maybe it's his memory playing tricks on him.)

On that fateful Monday, he did something he hadn't done in many years: he called in sick. He spent the day doing inane and utterly normal things, like cleaning his apartment, laundry, grocery shopping and cooking. And he locked up the most expensive bottles of alcohol he had in his home, and poured the rest down the drain.

He hasn't touched any of the bottles he has at home in the last two months, hasn't had a drop sitting alone in his office, or even celebrating a victory. No promises were made, but still he tries to be better. He still struggles – sometimes with the desperate want to forget, sometimes with his memories, and sometimes with his conscience.

And every day, he gets a little closer to the point where he might finally give in and confess.

 _Before_

In the days that follow her life-changing confession, they wordlessly agree not to talk about it. They pretend she hasn't said anything, even if every look he lets linger on her speaks to his inner tumult.  
The possibility of her leaving hangs heavily in the air between them, coloring all their interactions subconsciously. People notice, but nobody knows what's going on, so nobody dares to say anything. Not even Mike or Jessica, even if he sometimes catches them hovering near his office, watching him interact with Donna in concern.

The stalemate breaks weeks later, when he accidentally overhears Donna and Rachel talking in the kitchen one evening.  
"So, big date tomorrow night?", Rachel sounds curious, but teasing at the same time.

Donna's answer is low in volume, and her voice sounds flat as she simply says, "Maybe".

"Donna, come on. From the details that you had let slip this morning, it actually sounded like there might be a proposal in your very near future..." And for all that Rachel sounds excited when she starts her sentence, even Harvey can hear her trailing off in uncertainty.  
"Yeah, it does," Donna quietly agrees and for a moment, Harvey swears his heart stands still for a moment in absolute terror.  
Rachel seems to be quite confused by her friend's strange reaction.

"So why exactly are you not excited about it?", she inquires with a soft, understanding tone of voice. "I mean, Chicago and a wedding, that would just be..."  
"Like an insurance. Like he feels he needs to propose in order to seal the deal on Chicago." And there is so much disappointment and sadness in her words, that Harvey doesn't know if he wants to laugh in relief for the sudden dissolution of all his fears, or kick publisher-guy's ass for making her sound so damn sad.  
Rachel's quiet "Oh" is the last word uttered for a long time.  
When Donna finally speaks, she sounds resigned. "I just... when did we stop creating an unique picture of the future _with_ someone, instead of pasting them onto a ready-made image of what life should be?"

Her words stay with him as he steals away, and he considers his realizations, and second (or maybe, third, fourth, or fifth) chances, and thinks that maybe, he was right after all: she doesn't necessarily want the grand things, the pre-planned life, just because it's something she _should_ want.  
Maybe she is like him then. Maybe she too, actually wants the quiet reassurance of someone who will simply grow old with her.

(And something like hope takes root, because _maybe_ , just _maybe._..)

 _After_

One day, he finally takes the plunge. Hours of travel later, when a cab deposits him at his destination, he feels something like hesitation creep in, and his steps slow. But then he spies a flash of red in the distance and marches on.

She doesn't look up when he sinks down next to her, but her fingers curl inward, like she wants to reach out and touch him, but can't.  
"Harvey", is all she says, and for a long while they just sit there in silence. He's reminded of the night the floodgates burst open, of all the things he's come to understand, and suddenly he feels so many different emotions brimming beneath the surface. He takes a deep breath, as if he is still falling and needs to brace himself for impact into the deep waters below. And then he jumps.

The jumbled thoughts coming out of his mouth start out as softly spoken words, but swiftly gain momentum. He tells her of the hell the last months have been, of finally understanding that he never even thought about her not being in his life, of how often he thought about _The Other Time_ in the last year without understanding what it all meant. He even confesses his _maybe_ , his thoughts of growing old with her.  
He never says how much he's missed her, or forms that one other word, that could have changed so much between them, had he but realized it sooner. She is silent during his tirade, lets him vent as if that is what he needs to do most. It only feeds his growing anger.  
And then, once he has somehow talked himself into a state of anger and despair, he slips up.  
"God Donna, you always knew everything. You can't tell me you didn't know that I... how I feel about you", and finally, finally the question he's been keeping inside for months tumbles out.

"So why did you never say anything?"

She looks at him then, and he sees the despair he feels reflected in her. Like that hazy dream months ago, her eyes are too bright, and sadness clings to his skin like lead. His fingers dig into the cold dirt underneath his hands, burrowing deep.

"I can't answer that", she says, and he hears the hurt he feels reflected in her voice. He wants to weep then, for her, for him, for what this has made out of them, for how sad she looks in that moment. Something breaks inside, and in that crack in his walls, he feels reality slowly starting to seep in.  
Undeterred, he presses forward, "Why not?"  
She laughs at that, and the sound rings hollow through the space around them.

"You know why."

And suddenly her eyes are still unnaturally bright, but also piercing and everything broken washes off her. She's suddenly as fierce as he remembers her, hair shining brightly in the low afternoon sun.

He draws back then, because he begins to realize what it is she wants from him – has always wanted from him. But he won't do it, he can't do it. So instead, he tries pleading, and whispers her name like he's a drowning man and she his only lifeline.

She gives him no quarter, unrelenting and fierce, like she always was and never will be again.  
"You need to say it."

And then there's reality, like an cruel and ice cold mistress, and she forces him to think back. Back to the church, where he couldn't stop staring at her hair in that damn picture up front, how her mother hugged him desperately, like he was the last link to her daughter's life, how her father cried silent tears. And then he thinks back to all the times Donna was there – _after_ – and told him to _stop_ , and how he just couldn't, because he couldn't let go of what was, of what could have been, and of what will never be.

"You can't answer that... because you're not really here."  
And it hurts so badly, and he wants to cling to her ghost like she's real, just to fill up the spaces in him that used to hold her life, and now only spell her absence.

"You have to stop, Harvey. Let me go."

She is no longer the haunting presence, but once more the softly spoken ghost, slowly fading with the setting sun. He takes one last look at her, framed by the reds in the sky, eyes clear and soft in understanding.

He closes his eyes, his head lowering in defeat. Something sweeps through him, something like despair and acceptance both at once, and it eats him up. He will let her ghost go. He owes it to her to go on, even if it's hard. But he will always remember her, laughing and smiling, vibrant and so full of life, hair flowing around her like a manifestation of her very self.  
One last promise escapes his lips then. "I will never let go of your memory."

When he looks up, she is gone, and he knows he will never see her again.  
He gets up from the ground, casting a long look at the headstone in front of him, as if it spells a hidden message to him. But the words on the stone remain the same, and so do the words he carries inside.

 _Donna Paulsen  
1978 - 2014_

The words he wants to say the most won't come out. They are at the tip of his tongue, but there they remain. He knows them in his heart, has known them longer than his head ever realized, but he cannot say them now either. Because in the end, what does it matter if he says them to an empty graveyard, to a piece of stone?

The words he want to say the most won't come, but others do. His _I miss you_ is just a whisper on the wind; barely there, and then already gone.  
He turns, leaving it all behind without another look back. He already knows that he will return.

 _Between_

His cellphone rings. Still half-asleep he fumbles for it in the dark. The numbers on the alarm clock show 1:38 and he wonders who screwed up this time.  
"Specter?", he grumbles in lieu of a proper greeting.  
"This is the E.R. of the Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. Am I talking to Harvey Specter?" That wakes him up fast. His pulse picks up.  
"Yes. What is this about?"  
"Mr. Specter, you're listed as the emergency contact for one Donna Paulsen. I'm sorry to have to inform you that there's been an accident..."

 _And in all the days to come, not once will he utter this one word: 'love'._

* * *

A/N: Remember back in season three, when we still thought that Harvey didn't know how he felt about Donna...? Well, this story does.  
Anyway, this was an experiment in ambiguity and misleading storytelling. Did it work for you? If you hated it or loved it, are pissed off or simply confused - leave a review and let me know!  
You can also find me on tumblr, my username is "raylion-night". I welcome every and all discussion about writing!


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